


Sharing Oxygen

by tempusborealis



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Prose Poem, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempusborealis/pseuds/tempusborealis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three short, angsty snippets from their otherwise lovely time together in Georgia the summer after Jack's senior year. They mutually pine with no clue the other is doing the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (heads)

**Author's Note:**

> I used three prompts from the fabulous [nosebleedclub's](nosebleedclub.tumblr.com) writing Tumblr: i) the smell of your skin after running in the sun, ii) bodies floating in a pond, and iii) birds in a jar. Each chapter's parts correspond; chapter 1 (Heads) is from Bitty's perspective, chapter 2 (Tails) is from Jack's. Cross-posted to my CP Tumblr, [ziimbits](ziimbits.tumblr.com).

_i._

When he leans over you to grab a plate from a high shelf, the dense, knotty scent of cotton and sweat strikes you hard enough to bruise and the saltiness of it makes you want to lick your lips. It’s the scent of his blood pumping hot and close just under his flushed skin. There’s a heavy lurch of something hollow and dark too; cosmetic or your imagination you don’t know, but it hits you good and low in the gut. Your own sweat slicks your hair to your skull and this morning is a baptism of sorts because it’s the day you give up trying to purge the sick weight in your stomach and accept the premise that he will be the first to shatter you.

 

_ii._

Sculling on your back in the quarry is strangely heady in how it can simplify the world. A bowl of rock holding only water and sky, with you as the fulcrum. On slightly overcast days like these, the glassy surface reflects the clouds and makes everything even more disorienting, as if the boy beside you weren’t capable of doing that all by himself. You’d expected the cool water to wash away the fever-dream of his presence, incubated in the exhausting, humid womb of childhood fantasy. But he’s still here, occasionally looking at you soft and sweet ( _ignorant and knife-twisting_ ). You sluice through that nether-realm weightless and determined to be as blank as you feel until his leg slides against yours and suddenly the water is boiling and you think that this slick and fleeting nothingness is all you’ll ever have.

 

_iii._

You have to tell yourself to concentrate on the road through the heat of claustrophobia and gut-gnawing sense of impending loss. You swerve a few times but he doesn’t seem to notice as he quietly watches the trees and signs for the airport fly by. Heartbeats heavy – rattling through your chest and knocking the wind out of your lungs – and you’re a panicked bird in a jar throwing your wings against the glass even as you enjoy the captivity. When you follow him north, it will be to a different city – your tongue swells with the words _“so this is it, isn’t it?”_ and sits heavy in your mouth, choking. Your eyes burn, your face burns, your lungs burn, you burn as your intestines unravel behind you and sizzle on the asphalt of the highway.


	2. (tails)

_i._

Puttering around him in the kitchen feels normal, the sort of domesticity hospital beds and psychiatrists silently assured you you’d never have; people don’t buy broken goods, after all. You’re sweating and he’s sweating and somehow you’re naked in front of him even with your clothes on. Everything in the room seems as though it’s sweating too, like your gaze slides off and you can’t look at anything for too long before your eyes slip to something else. At this point there’s little difference between the knots anxiety is making of your innards and those made by longing, and you don’t know if it would be better or worse to touch him. If history is any indication, these are the sorts of decisions you’ve never been good at making.

_ii._

This is the furthest south you’ve ever been. Nothing can really prepare you for the heat, heat that melts everything a bit so it’s a little soft around the edges and malleable to the touch. Cold water usually cures such softness, but right now you feel like you’re floating in a sensory deprivation tank where the world is shades of gray and if you try to pick them out from each other everything explodes into oil-spill pinks and turquoises. A different kind of high. Water pulls and sucks at your body; the whole quarry is electrified with his presence and you can feel it skittering down your spine and out through your fingertips. They itch with want. All it would take is a simple flick of your wrist to touch him, but that’s not for people like you.

_iii._

Trees blur into the tail-end of this hot, beautiful mirage and you can’t bring yourself to speak because you might disturb its last dreamy ripples. You’ve never been here before and may never be again; it’s not the warm household filled with welcoming people, smells, and laughter where you’ve left your heart, but you know that once you get out of this car a little piece will be irrevocably lost. He’s tense beside you and you want to smooth his feathers. Tuck him under your chin. Trace the lines of his face with your fingers and lips and learn the Braille of his skin for the rest of your life, if you’re being honest (and you learned the hard way that you must be, at least to yourself). Mirages end in one of two ways: death or salvation. Too bad you could never tell him you need saving.


End file.
